


White Winos

by Maxegirl1313



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Dysfunctional Family, Family Dynamics, Gen, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:52:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maxegirl1313/pseuds/Maxegirl1313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jim was a kid, Winona liked to drink whenever she was home. Not the way Frank liked to drink, or the way Jim would come to, but she enjoyed being mellow and relaxed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Winos

**Author's Note:**

> A short character study about Winona Kirk, and more specifically, how her relationship with her dead husband effected her relationship with her son. Unbeta'd, all mistakes 100% my own
> 
> Title and two or three absolutely wonderful phrases taken from Loudon Wainwright's gorgeous song White Winos. I highly suggest checking it out. 
> 
> I am so sorry about the ridiculous amount of line breaks. Please let me know if the style/tone seem appropriate and not terrible.

When Jim was a kid, Winona liked to drink whenever she was home.

Not the way Frank liked to drink, or the way Jim would come to, but she enjoyed being mellow and relaxed, sitting out on the screen porch steps, watching the sun set. A slender, delicate hand clutching a glass of white wine, a beer bottle, or very rarely, red wine.

Jim had always joined her. Slipping out onto the creaky porch with the reassuring familiarity of rough, uneven wood beneath his fingers.  He had sat as close to her as he dared, watching as the sun disappeared, content to listen to her talk about her latest mission, her worries and concerns, and eventually-- his father. With each glass she'd reveal more and more, until, eventually, she'd stop.

 

* * *

 

Jim was never disillusioned about Love the way same kids were.

It was never flowers and chocolates and romance.

He had seen the destruction, the pain, the  _never ending suffering_  his mother had gone through. That was the kind of love he knew- the kind of inevitable pain you would suffer through. His mother's drinking could attest to that, each empty bottle a dead soldier, George Kirk's memory a never-ending war.

 

* * *

 

His mother would sometimes drink four glasses, even five-- but never more than that. She wasn't trying to get drunk, she was just-- trying to be able to _look_ at Jim. To see _him_. She was trying to take the edge off of seeing him, get the lovely glow of alcohol and dulled memories.

She’d talk and talk, not quite rambling, with long tales of childhood and adventure. Her voice went soft and wistful as she reminisced.

Eventually, starting when he was barely ten, she'd let Jim have a glass of white wine. He'd get the glow too-- a feeling of melancholy and happiness all at once, and he almost understood his mother's nostalgia then.

 

* * *

 

Jim can only remember three, maybe four times when his mother drank enough to get drunk, and it was always with red wine. Jim hated it-- instead of a nice glow, it would be a searing hot look in his mother’s eyes, and Jim would feel inexplicably nervous.

She would get close to him, arm wrapped around him like a boa constrictor, drawing him closer and closer until eventually, Jim would bolt-- it was just too much.

They never talk about, and eventually the look would go away 

(or at least Jim learned to ignore it)

 

* * *

 

Later in his life, when Jim is a fully grown adult, he'll occasionally indulge in white wine. He's not much of a wine guy- offer him any and he'll most likely give you a wry, almost uncomfortable grin, and politely decline. Even more rare, he'd have a glass of red wine, when he was with a woman that he wanted to take to bed, his eyes glowing hot as he moved in closer.

He almost never sees him mother these days, hasn't seen much of her since he was fourteen, but he's finally busy, he has an actual excuse now. He has a ship to run. A crew to take care of. Missions to carry out. All reasons to keep him from drinking, or seeing his mother.

 

* * *

 

On the day of his father's death, on his 11th birthday, they sat out on the screen porch, but this time it felt _different_. Odd. She was drinking whiskey, a rare occurrence in itself. But she was-- drinking with vigor, desperately.

She was trying to erase her memories, not dull them.

His mother was so desperate to live, desperate to forget, she broke her careful limit of five. She'd cried then-- tears running down her face like thick drops of white wine as she pulled him closer. She hadn't tried anything though, and he wondered if red wine altered her mind that much, or if it was simply the only way to lower her inhibitions.

Jim helped her up, even as she desperately clung to him, and helped her stumble to bed. Carefully kissing her forehead before tucking her in, Jim wishes himself happy birthday.

 

* * *

 

Much, much later in his life, when Jim is on shore leave for his 35th birthday, he comes to see her. She's at the old house, sitting on the screen porch, white wine in her hand. He sits next to her and for the first time since he was a kid, they talk. She gingerly pours him a glass of the white wine, and they talk.

They talk about her childhood, recap Jim's career, and finally when they get to Jim's father, he switches to beer. It's so much harder to talk about George Kirk than Jim remembers.

If anything, his mother seems much more comfortable with talking about him, the feral look no longer entering her eyes. She comments how much he looks like his father, and they carefully avoid red wine for the rest of the night.

The next day, on the actual day of his birthday, he's goes out and gets drunk on whiskey alone.

 

* * *

 

When Winona is dying, and Jim comes to see for the last time, he brings her a bottle of red wine. She looks at him, tears in her eyes, and pours them two glasses with shaking hands. Holding the red wine in the same delicate hand she did his whole childhood, she tightly grasps his hand with her other.

"Thank God we stuck to white wine," She mumbled, the red staining her lips.

Later, when they've drank nearly the entire bottle, she caresses his face in a way that's reminiscent of the burning type of glow.

"George..." she mumbles sleepily, and the wine glass falls out of her hand, red staining the floor.

Jim never drinks red wine again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am nervous about this (AO3 seems too legit for me!) and would love some feedback and criticism. Thank you!


End file.
